


Better Than A Dream

by Zunora (emmett)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmett/pseuds/Zunora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's coming home to John, his John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Frou Frou's _Must Be Dreaming_ makes a lovely accompaniment.

Eighteen months. Eighteen months and 221B Baker St looks exactly the same, still looks like home. He crosses the street and walks up to the door. He eyes the lock to make sure that it hasn’t been changed, then pulls a spare key out of his pocket and opens the door.

Seeing John’s coat on the rack makes him feel surprisingly relieved, he'd assumed Mycroft would help pay for the rent, but he hadn't been so sure that John would want to stay. He decides against hanging his coat up, in case Mrs Hudson sees it before she sees him. Speaking of Mrs Hudson, there's no light seeping from under her door, unsurprising, it is 2AM. Telling her can wait till morning.

With quiet, light, steps, he takes the stairs two at a time, opens the door to their flat, and breathes in the familiar smell.

His things are still there, some pushed to the side or covered over, but for the most part where he'd left them. Sherlock scans the room quickly, in case John's asleep on the couch, but he isn't. The dramatic part of him wants to just sit down, pose himself on the sofa, and wait until morning. The rest of him doesn’t want to wait another moment. So he rushes up the second set of stairs to John’s room faster than the first, opens the door.

The bed is empty. Made. No John. For a moment, Sherlock forgets to breathe. Three dozen possible explanations racing through his mind, each more terrifying than the last.

There's a noise. Nothing more than a light snuffle, but Sherlock’s panicked ears pick it up. He races back down the stairs and checks the couch again.

Oh. Of course. His own room. He pushes at the door, and in the lines of streetlight slipping through the curtains, he can see John, curled asleep in his bed, his crutch resting against the bedside table

“John,” he says softly, and when he is unable to get more than a breath in reply, “ _John._ ”

John’s eyes open blearily, and he pushes himself up on one elbow, rubbing at his face with the other hand. He blinks a few times, staring at Sherlock as he does. Then he climbs out of bed and walks towards him. Sherlock takes a step forward himself. John stops right in front of him, still looking half asleep.

“You’re a mess tonight. God only knows what that means.”

Sherlock’s still trying to understand exactly what John means when two hands grab the lapels of his jacket and pull him down, and two lips press against his own.

It was not what Sherlock's been expecting. He’s spent a lot of time thinking about his return, running the possibilities through his head and he’d decided that the most likely response would be for John to punch him, followed by walking away, all the way down to the very unlikely option of John passing out, but this? This hadn’t even occurred as a possibility.

John pulls back at Sherlock's stillness, squints at him in the darkness, slides his hands up to wrap around Sherlock’s neck, and kisses him again. This time, Sherlock kisses back. Kisses back because he's missed this, missed people, a person, it's been so long since he's had so much as a pat on the shoulder and this, _this_ is exactly what he needed, even if he had not known it. He wraps his arms around the shoulders of the warm figure in front of him, slides his hands into the hair that's longer than he remembered. It's John that's in charge though, completely, and when he pushes Sherlock toward the bed and presses on his shoulders until he sits down, Sherlock complies, despite how odd it feels.

John's the tall one now, standing between his legs while Sherlock's got his head tilted up, which is strange enough without the kissing.

"Get that coat off," John grumbles, fiddling with the buttons, and Sherlock's so busy with John's lips and hair and warmth that he doesn't help, he lets go just long enough for John to push the coat off, then wraps his arms back around him.

He feels overdressed suddenly when he realises that all John's wearing is a t-shirt and boxers. So he pushes John away and strips off his jacket, shirt following quickly (he loses a few buttons in the process, but the thing never really fitted anyway), followed by his trousers. John stares at him in the dim light, places a hand on his chest, holding it for a moment over his heart then running his finger down in a way that makes Sherlock shiver. And then he's on his back, John leaning over him, kissing everywhere he can get to. His neck, collarbone, chest, ribs, abdomen. Then John's mouth is on one of his nipples and Sherlock makes a sound that he'll deny for the rest of his life.

John laughs and it's something that Sherlock has been aching to hear, so he moans again and is rewarded with another chuckle. He runs his hands up and down John's back under his shirt, feeling the muscles and scars and heat. John's thinner than he should be, but he still feels solid, still feels like his John.

He straightens up, helps Sherlock move onto the bed properly and climbs on after him, stripping his shirt at Sherlock's insistence. It occurs to Sherlock then, that the two of them are lying on his bed, in their underwear, and he doesn't have the slightest problem with it. His body wants nothing more than to get as close to John as he possibly can, and for once his mind is happy to agree.

"You're thinking," John says, staring down at him, and Sherlock nods. John grins as though he's taking it as a challenge and leans down for another kiss. Sherlock takes his own turn at drawing noises from John and runs the backs of his nails down his neck, over his collarbone and begins to circle his nipples. John moans and Sherlock wonders why he's never done this before, running the tip of his nail lightly across John's nipple until it can feel it harden and John squirm.

He's vaguely aware of the fact he has an erection, but his focus is so firmly on John and his nipples and the sounds he's making into his mouth that he doesn't pay much attention to it until John rocks his hips and pushes them together.

Sherlock must freeze, or stop breathing or something, because John knows exactly what that little movement has done to him. He's grinning into Sherlock's mouth as he slides his arm down between them and pauses with his hand on Sherlock's hip, his little finger slipped under the waistband of his underwear, rubbing tiny, maddening circles.

He growls into John's mouth and John chuckles back, pushing his hand under the elastic waistband. He's teasing to begin with, running his fingertips through dark curls and scratching lightly at soft skin. In the end, Sherlock bucks into John's crotch to try and get the message through to him that while this is all fun and good, he has some other, more fun things in mind.

John nips at his lip, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's penis, stroking a few times, slowly, carefully, moving back a little so he can watch Sherlock. Sherlock grips John's shoulder tighter with one hand, and with the other slides down the length of John's warm, sweat-sticky body to cup his arse. He scrunches up the leg of John's pants until he can run his fingers along the soft crease where his thigh and arse meet. John groans at the touch and decides that this is enough playing and utilises both hands to pull satiny boxers off his hips. There is a moment of awkward scrambling as John kicks them off and throws them to the floor, then he's there, kneeling above Sherlock, naked, and Sherlock doesn't ever want to forget the sight. His John, no debate about it now.

When John pulls off Sherlock's pants and throws them haphazardly over his shoulder, there's a a look in his eyes that makes something coil in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. John leans forward and then they're touching, and all Sherlock can think is John. Johnjohnjohn. Then John wraps his hand around them both and Sherlock swears he can feel his pulse.

It's hot and it's messy and they rock together and Sherlock's hand joins John's and their timing's off and it should be making Sherlock mad but he can't find it in him to care, not now that he's got John so close that his head is spinning from it.

He comes first, spilling over both their stomachs and for a moment he really, truly can't breath. It's wonderful. John comes just after and he stares breathless at Sherlock before collapsing on top of him, face nestled between Sherlock's shoulder and neck. Sherlock stares at the ceiling, fingers moving idly through John's hair, until John's breath begins to slow back to sleep.

"We cannot sleep like this," he points out, and John mumbles something in reply. Gently, he rolls John off him, and manhandles him until he's facing vaguely the right way for the bed. Then noting the mess on their stomachs, gets up and heads for the bathroom, bringing back a damp cloth.

He wipes them both down, a sleepy John twitching away from the cold on his skin, and Sherlock tries not to laugh at how he looks. When he's done, he throws the cloth in the same direction as their pants (another thing that can wait till tomorrow) and climbs in next to John, pulling the covers over them both.

Sherlock never expected to be one to 'cuddle' (not that he ever expected to be one to have sex with his flatmate either), but he finds that while it's nice to stretch his limbs out in a bed built for someone his height, the sound of John's breathing isn't quite enough. He snakes out a foot and hooks it around John's, and lets his hand rest on the back of his neck. Like that, for the first time in eighteen months, Sherlock drifts easily to sleep.

—

Sherlock wakes first. He's not used to sleeping much, or in a comfortable bed, let alone his own, so he wakes just as the light is beginning to trickle through the blinds. John is still asleep, now curled against his side, and Sherlock is happy to wrap his arm around him and hold him there, even if it does cut off his circulation a little.

He stays like that, John occasionally snuffling or twisting but never moving far, and Sherlock is happy to just look, to take in every little difference since he left, learn what he can about how he's changed, and how he hasn't.

John's alarm goes off with a screech at seven and, despite the speed of Sherlock's reflexes in turning it off, John still wakes. He scrunches up his face, yawns, and stretches, before opening his eyes. He stares at Sherlock, whose faces is approximately fifteen centimetres away, a slow frown forming. His eyes go wide after a moment and he pushes himself up and away from Sherlock at high speed.

"Oh god, she was right, Ella was right."

Ella? John's therapist. How could she have know-

"I'm mad. I've lost it. Finally lost it, and it's all your fault!" John's voice is shaking as he grabs the blanket and pulls it up to his neck.

"John, I assure you, you are not ma-"

"No, _no_. Stop talking."

Sherlock stops, deciding to let John's hysteria play out for the moment.

"I should have stopped this months ago. I should have, but, I missed you so much. I needed you so much." He's looking at Sherlock desperately now, searching for something.

"John, are you labouring under the assumption that I am not real; that I am some sort of hallucination?"

"Well," and he barks a short, sharp laugh, "Seeing as you're dead, yes."

"You asked for a miracle."

"Exactly. No one heard me say that."

"I did."

"No."

Sherlock stares at him a moment, for once not sure how to go on. "I had to leave John, and I'm sorry, but I never really left you, not completely. You've seen me, out of the corner of your eye, at the graveyard, on the street — t _he shopping_ , John."

"That was you?"

"Of course it was."

"No. It was Mycroft, being his usual nosy self. It can't have been you, because you. Are. A. Hallucination."

"John, this is getting tedious. Must I call Mrs Hudson up here to prove to you that I am real?"

"No, no, that's fine!"

John still looks unsure so Sherlock explains, about the plan, about Molly, about everything.

"There. Proof. I must be real because you could never come up with a plan as complex as that."

John opens his mouth to object, then nods, slowly, and Sherlock can see the acceptance growing on his face. John reaches out to touch Sherlock's cheek.

"I have missed you, so much. I could kill you myself for what you've done to me."

"I believe that would be rather counter-productive."

John shakes his head and laughs. "You must be real."

"I am."

John lunges forward and wraps himself around Sherlock, his arms solid and strong against his back. Sherlock wraps his own lanky limbs around him and smiles as John says, "Don't _ever_ do that to me again."

"I highly doubt that there will ever again be a nee-"

" _Ever_."

They stay like that for a while, just revelling in each other's presence, until Sherlock's curiosity gets the better of him.

"May I ask why your… reaction was so delayed?"

John looks down at the both of them, naked and sweaty and still a little sticky. "Ah."

"The fact that you showed no surprise at my arrival was rather disconcerting- _oh_."

"Yes."

Sherlock grins despite himself. "How long?"

"Seventeen months."

"How often?"

"Every week or so to start with, lately though… Most nights."

"I hope now that I've returned, I won't have to compete with myself?"

John chuckles that same light chuckle from last night. "I highly doubt it."

He's leaning in for another kiss when Sherlock's ears pick up a careful, slow presence on the stairs.

" _Mrs Hudson_."

She walks into the room an instant later, before John can move very far or cover them up.

"John dear, are you sick, you should have been off to work by no- _Sherlock!_ "

Mrs Hudson braces herself against the doorframe, "John, dear, am I…"

John shakes his head.

She stares at Sherlock in silence for a moment, slowly shaking her head.

"I've always known you'd show up in his bed."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: Better than a Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/703857) by [magicranberries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicranberries/pseuds/magicranberries)




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